


Quiet Revolutionaries

by jkateel



Series: Why We Fight (Why We Die) [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Act 3, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Friendmance, M/M, Post "Justice" quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 18:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jkateel/pseuds/jkateel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Letting go, as Garrett's dreams keep showing him, isn't easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for minorearth's "Quiet Revolutionaries" [fanmix,](http://dragonagebb.livejournal.com/37245.html) as part of the Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang 2013 challenge. The fanmix was described as "[one for] a Hawke/Anders friendmance; a Hawke who supports Anders’ cause, who stands by him even when the worst has come to pass. Love isn’t always pretty, and it almost never comes easy, but this is a mix for a relationship that will survive past the end of the game."
> 
> Set sometime after the "Justice" quest in Act 3.  
> 
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The toll of the Chantry bell drew Garrett’s gaze away from the way the rain drummed on the tall, marble statute in full-plate armor, carrying a sword made of flame in his outstretched hand. He turned and looked up at the Chantry, up the grand staircase and golden statues, past the flapping red banners emblazoned with the sun insignia, to the citadel itself. Towers stretched out like stone fingers, reaching high into the murky green-brown sky toward the floating Black City in the horizon. The Chantry bell tolled twice, thrice, as if calling out to it, the echoes vibrating down to Garrett's bones.

He grew more and more confused the longer he stared up at the Chantry. What was he doing here? he wondered. _How_ had he ended up here? He couldn't remember — why he had came to the Chantry, or even what he had been doing before this. He closed his eyes as he tried to recall, memories coming back to him slowly. There had been someone singing...

"Garrett, love," a voice called from behind him. Garrett's breath caught in his throat, his eyes snapping open. "Come sit down."

He whipped around, but it wasn't a dream or a trick. Down the hill, sitting on a blanket spread over a large patch of green grass, was his mother. Garrett drank in the sight of her — her smile warm and bright like sunshine; her golden hair and the purple and pinks of her dress — before his heart leapt again. She wasn't alone: next to her was Carver, with his permanent scowl, big arms folded across his chest. and it took him a moment to notice Bethany next to her twin. She laughing at Dog, the mabari rolling around in the grass. Garrett could scarcely believe his eyes.

It didn't seem real — his family _here_ , together again. Garrett almost didn't want to believe it, for it was too cruel a jest otherwise. But that feeling faded when he felt warm hands settle on his shoulders, a familiar chuckle mixing in with the pulse of arcane warmth and spirit coolness.

"Come on, Son," his father said, Garrett swallowing around his suddenly tight throat. "Let's not keep the family waiting."

His father pulled away after squeezing his shoulders; Garrett watched him pass, his golden staff with Andraste's form bright against the reds of his coat. The magic that followed in his father's wake — that world-changing, unstoppable magic — beckoned Garrett forward like his mother's smile. Garrett's heart swelled, and he huffed out a laugh. His family was waiting for him — he had been waiting for them. He didn't want to wait any longer.

Garrett made to follow his father, but halted before he even managed a step. There was someone missing on the grass, he realized. Mother, Father, Carver, Bethany and Dog were here, but they weren't all together yet. Who was missing? Garrett struggled to think. Who was it...

The knell of the Chantry bell pierced through his heart. Garrett's gaze swept back toward the sound, only to catch on the sight of bronze and iron. The bell tolled twice more as he looked over the tall statues that lined along the grass like prison bars, hands cupped over faces of bowed heads. They were strapped to pillars of rock connected by thick iron pillars, long rows of chains attached to the statues' collars leading up and up, to the top of a tower high above. Directly across from them, the same statues mourned against their own tower, the shadows of the two towers like long limbs that stretched toward the Chantry.

"The clock is ticking down."

Garrett frowned, looking over to the man standing beside him. The wind ruffled his gray feathers along the man's shoulders, his honey-colored eyes on the Chantry towering above them. They flashed white-blue once.

"It will be midnight soon." His voice rumbled like distant thunder.

The words were meaningless, but Garrett knew the man. Recalling his name, however, was like recalling something from a half-remembered dream. "Anders," he murmured slowly, but as soon as he said it the spell was broken. It was Anders, his love. Anders, his family. How could he forget him?

It didn't matter: He was here now, and Garrett was thrilled to see him. "Anders, I'm glad you came," Garrett said with a grin, reaching for his lover's hand. "Hurry, everyone is here! Mother and Bethany and Dog — and Carver and Father! You have to meet them! We can't keep them waiting."

He tugged on Anders' hand to lead him to the grass, but it was like pulling at stone.

"I cannot go, Love," Anders said when Garrett looked back to him. His smile was sad as he shook his head. "The war is happening soon."

Garrett frowned. "Anders, what are you talking about? What war?" he asked. But like Anders' name, he knew he knew. It was just a matter of remembering it. Garrett struggled to, though it was harder this time, with his family's laughter and the Chantry bell distracting him. He ended up shaking his head, wondering why it was important. Was it even important? His family was waiting after all — and there was nothing more important than his family — Garrett tugging on Anders' hand again. "We need to go, Darling," he said, smiling as he glanced back at his family. "They're waiting for us."

"Do you believe in me, Love?" Anders asked, Garrett hesitating before looking back at him. He was lost in the sense of déjà vu, of a conversation he and Anders had before, but also hadn't had.

Anders lifted his hand and cupped Garrett's cheek, arcane warmth and spirit cool in his touch. He brushed Garrett's lips with his staff-calloused thumbs. "Do you believe mages deserve to be free?" he asked. Garrett frowned again. "Do you believe they deserve to never have Templars tear them from their sobbing mother's arms? To never hear their father call them a monster, a sin against the Maker? To have a family, willing to love them for who they are, and protect them from those who'd hunt them down and tear them apart?"

Of course Garrett believed that. That was who he was. He had spent his entire life protecting his family from the Templars who would take his father and sister away and punish the rest of them for trying to keep them safe. Garrett wanted and believed in the world Anders wished to build, where they were all free. "I do. You know I do, Anders," Garrett said, confused. "Why would you ask me that?"

The sadness that grew in Anders' eyes stretched the length of Thedas itself. "Because you'll have to let me go, Love," he whispered.

The Chantry bell tolled again; his family called out to him, but their words were drowned out in the echo. _No, don't do this,_ were words Garrett had wanted to say, but like then, he found he couldn't speak. _You can't say that to me. You say there are some things more important than your life, but your life is important to_ me _._ (He had made a joke instead, hadn't he? Why was he _always_ making jokes...)

That was all forgotten the moment he heard Bethany scream.

Garrett whipped around, his blood running cold at the sight of full silver armor and the sun-and-sword shields. Templars were swarming the clearing like locusts, pouring out from the towers by the dozens, the hundreds. Garrett watched in horror as one swung his sword at Dog, the marabi's pained yip lost over the another toll of the Chantry bell. A Templar had was holding Bethany to his chest, his sister sobbing as she struggled to free herself. "Garrett!" she screamed, hand outstretched for him.

"Bethany!" he yelled, scrambling down the hill after her. He didn't make it far, stumbling over something solid and landing hard on his hands. As he lifted his head, his heart stopped in his chest when he came face-to-face with his mother. She was strewn on the grass like a broken doll, gray dress matching her gray eyes and gray skin and gray hair. There were dark stitches that crossed her neck, her warm smile frozen cold on her face. " _My little boy is all grown up,"_ she whispered then. " _I'm so proud of you."_

Garrett let out a sob and twisted away, only for his hands to connect again with a solid mass. He looked over, and his vision swam with the sight of Carver, veins in his white skin throbbing black up twisted limbs and bleeding out from his murky-brown eyes. Garrett gagged on the smell of the darkspawn taint coming off him, and he tore his eyes away.

He didn't look far, his eyes settling on his father's body lying next to the others. His father's golden staff was leaning into the air, the bust of Andraste dripping blood. A single red droplet slide down the gold, he felt hands settle on his shoulders. _You have to take care of them, Son,_ he heard his father whisper. Garrett could remember those same words from what seem liked millennia ago. _You have to protect them._

The Chantry bell rang loudly, Garrett's blurry gaze was drawn to the sunlight that suddenly streamed through the rain. The Templars had parted down the center, a figure striding through in the wake. Sunlight caught on a golden crown, the folds of a red hood, the glint of silver armor. Pauldrons were lined with long spikes of metal near his shoulders, armor reminding Garrett of layers of dragon the figure's face was cast in shadow, though the light revealed the sword-and-sun symbol stamped on the armor's breastplate.

Chills ran down Garrett's spine. He could feel the power coming off the Templar, so much like his father's magic: world-changing, unstoppable. All that power was directed toward the hill, Garrett's heart dropping like a stone when he followed the Templar's gaze and caught sight of Anders.

 _No,_ Garrett thought, panic pushing him to his feet. Without a doubt, he knew the Templar would kill Anders. He was too powerful — a Templar Knight straight from Garrett's nightmares, come to take his family away, and there was always nothing he could do.

"No!" yelled over another bell toll, charging the Knight. They couldn't have Anders too, Garrett thought. He _wouldn't_ let them—

The Knight paused, turning to regard him. Whatever sight Garrett made, he wasn't bothered, merely lifting fingers to his temple. Garrett couldn't even try to avoid the sudden snap of power in the air, the blast of energy hitting him full force and sending him flying.

He hit the ground hard, tumbling over twice and sliding to a halt. Time seemed to slow while the world spun around him, vision swimming in and out of focus. _You have to protect them, you have to protect them,_ Garrett heard in his head, his fingers curling into charred dirt. Lyrium sang to him as it danced on his skin and browning grass, the toll of the Chantry bell making the ground vibrate.

Garrett lifted his head, and in his clearing vision he could see he was at the feet of the statue with the glowing sword. His eyes shifted away, catching on the bronze of the tower statues on both sides of him. With their hands clasped over their faces, it was if they couldn't bear to watch, the reason for their fear appearing with a glint of silver in the corner of his eye.

Garrett's heart spiked. He was surrounded by Templars, the Knight at his side. Garrett tried to push up, but another snap of power pinned him back to the ground. The lyrium's melody began to crescendo in another ring of the Chantry bell, Garrett still unable to move. The Knight's gauntlets creaked as he lifted his sword above Garrett's neck. Panic swelled inside Garrett: Maker, the Knight would kill him, and then go after Anders and Bethany, and Garrett _couldn't_ let that happen. He had to protect them, he thought frantically, fingers clenching into the dirt as he struggled against the power holding him down. He _had_ to protect them—

White-hot lightning slammed into the Templar and threw him back, the air sizzling in the spell's wake. The attack was followed by a wave of blue flames that sent the other Templars scattering. The song of lyrium died off, and Garrett found he could move again, shifting to his side to find the source of the attack.

From the flames, Anders strode through, his eyes flared with light, cracks of blue ripping up and down his skin. As Garrett watched, the greens and browns of his clothes began to bleed black and gold, ending at the fluttering feathers of his pauldrons.

One of the Templars ran toward him, only to be blasted back. Anders' magic rippled the air, the light streaming from his eyes and body flaring as he launched wave after wave of spells with his hands alone. Garrett's mouth dropped in awe as a sheet of ice froze several Templars in place, the earth rumbling before rock shot up in a shape of a fist to shatter them to pieces.

Anders thrust a clenching fist in the direction of a Templar, whose scream cut off as he exploded in a gush of blood. Skin and eyes flashing again, Anders' entire body swayed as magic traveled from his torso up to his hands spread high in the air.

The sky spread open in a flash of colors, and from its depths, blue fireballs hurtled down and slammed right into the Templars. Heat and wind whipped over him with a roar, Garrett covering his eyes.

He lowered his arm when the rain suddenly returned, Garrett seeing the wind batting at black feathers, water sliding down the golds of a black coat. He looked up, meeting Anders' eyes, the agony and ache in them so vast it could have swallowed Garrett whole.

"Do you believe in me, Love?" Anders asked again, Garrett's heart clenching tight.

"No," he whispered. He knew what Anders was going to do, and he started to shake his head. "Anders, no. Don't, please."

The Chantry bell tolled once more, sunlight bursting through the rain and shining on them. The Knight was nothing more than a blur as he streaked from the light, straight toward Anders. Flaring with his own light, Anders barely dodged the attack, stumbling back. The Knight spun around, lyrium humming in his wake; Anders' hands sparked with lightning. Garrett yelled, but the sound was lost as the two behemoths clashed: Anders shooting the lightning just as the Knight launched another attack.

Light flashed, blinding Garrett, magic and lyrium crackling in the air. Something hit the soil, Garrett's vision clearing enough to see it was the Knight's sword. He looked back, seeing Anders' lightning charging up for another attack. The Knight wasn't deterred, merely streaking forward and catching Anders by the arm when he went to cast the spell. Sidestepping behind Anders, the Knight reached behind for something on his belt. Garrett saw the glint of a knife from the Knight's hand, right before he thrust right into Anders' back.

Anders' light blinked out in an instant. Over the thump of his body hitting the ground, Garrett heard his voice echo, _Do you believe in me, Love?_

Garrett's scream was drowned out by the toll of the Chantry bell.

* * *

Garrett woke up gasping, skin still crawling with the hum of lyrium and blood. _No, no, no,_ he thought, twisting as he tried to claw the feeling out of his flesh, only to find he was trapped in some sort of binding. He tore at it mindlessly until he was free, stumbling away. There was a glint of light out of the corner of his eye, colored gold or silver Garrett didn't know or care; he lashed out. Only the sound of splintering wood snapped him out of his panic.

His vision slowly came into focus on the sight of his hand smashed into the side of his wardrobe. Garrett stared at it, trying to understand what he was seeing, and why it was so confusing. What was he doing here at home? Hadn't he just been at the Chantry? (Or had it been the Gallows?) He had been with his family — Father, Mother, Carver, Bethany, Dog, Anders — and there had been Templars...

There was a pressure against his other hand, something moist nudging at it and whining softly. Garrett looked down, seeing Dog at his side, the mabari bumping his nose into his palm again. It slowly it dawned on Garrett that the mabari _was_ there, not lying in a pool of blood on charred grass. Dog was in the estate, they both were, Garrett's hand in the wardrobe and his bed a mess of rumpled sheets and pillows. Rain drummed on the roof and window panes, the fireplace popping and crackling warm and inviting as always.

 _Only a dream,_ Garrett realized.

What kind of dream had _that_ been? he wondered as he gently freed his hand from the wardrobe. It had been too vivid, too real, Garrett remembering almost every detail: his father's hands on his shoulders, the ache in Anders' eyes, the Templar's power, the way the earth shook when Anders and Templar had fought. His skin still hummed with the lyrium's song, and the feel of Anders' thumb brushing his lips.

But there was something solid in Dog's soft fur that hadn't been there in the dream, and the way pain shot up his arm when Garrett flexed his hand was far more focused. His hand wasn't broken fortunately; broken bones would have required a healer, and Anders' side of the bed was empty. It would have also required an explanation as to why he tried to break his hand in the first place, and Garrett had never been good at _explanations_.

He wasn't sure how to explain this one either. He had always had his share of violent nightmares, but they were nothing compared to Anders', his lover often times spending half the night whispering and tossing and turning. He had never taken much stock in his dreams though, as Anders sometimes did in his wilder moments when he woke up convinced darkspawn were near. But there was a key difference between those moments and Garrett's.

"Neither of us have woken up in the middle of trying to murder our wardrobes before," he muttered to Dog, who licked his shaking hand.

His humor didn't last long, Garrett's eyes settling on the empty side of the bed.

He had watched the Templar stab Anders in the back, and Garrett had been too weak and powerless to help his lover, or any of his family. Perhaps, he thought, that was why it felt so real.

He shook off the chills that followed, looking away from the bed. _It was only a dream_ , he reminded himself, vowing not to think about it anymore. He turned back to Dog, and forcing a grin. "Come on, boy, let's get some food."

Dog didn't let out his usual excited woof, merely whined sadly. Garrett tried not to think too much on that as he left the room.

Despite his promise, breakfast was a miserable affair, Garrett's eyes on the empty chair next to his own. It wasn't unusual sight to see it so, Anders up at the crack of dawn, meals tucked into his satchel as he headed out for the day. Garrett normally didn't mind either — they had busy lives, after all — but lately he'd hated it more and more. He swallowed, his fingers twitching against the table.

But he couldn't let himself think about why he hated that empty chair. Wouldn't let himself acknowledge the pit in his stomach that was starting to feel endless.

Garrett felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise suddenly. He glanced over, seeing Sandal standing beside him. Sandal merely stared at him for a long moment, until his lips slid into a smile.

"You have to let go now," he said.

Garrett felt his heart stop in his chest; the world tilt on its axis. "What?" he whispered.

Sandal blinked once, his smile fading. "Enchantment?" he offered.

"Not now, my boy. Messere Hawke is having breakfast!" Bodahn chirruped from the other side of the room. Garrett glanced at him, and then back at Sandal, the young dwarf scratching at his bum absently as he stared blankly into the distance. Had Sandal said what he thought he said? Garrett wondered, but the very notion left an ache in his stomach that was almost as bad as the pit.

And that was enough thinking for the day, Garrett thought, pushing up from his chair. He did his best to ignore Bodahn's worried look from the side of the table. "Was breakfast not to your liking, Messere?" he asked, sparing a glance for the eggs and ham Garrett hadn't even touched. "Perhaps Messere would like something else?"

"No," Garrett said, his eyes having found the burning fire from across the room. It took some effort to turn back to Bodahn and force a charming smile. "It's a lovely day, isn't it, Bodahn? A nice day for a picnic, I think. Please ask Orana if she will pack a basket for two."

Bodahn gave him an odd look. A justified look really, when it was clearly raining outside, and the entire house chilly because of it. But Garrett was a master who regularly ignored the pirate who was always breaking in, the dwarf who swung from the chandelier and the dog that gambled. A picnic on a rainy day was borderline _normal_ in comparison. "Of course, Messere," Bodahn said slowly, reaching the same conclusion judging by the way his nose wrinkled.

Garrett favored him with another charming smile as he headed for the stairs. "Good man, Bodahn. Good man."

He had a quick bath, nothing more than a sweep of a wet sponge over his body. He dabbed cologne on his neck; dressed in simple clothes. By the time he finished up, his picnic was ready to go, Garrett taking it before heading for the cellars.

Garrett's mood began to lift at the thought of seeing Anders. He had been bringing food to Anders for years now, ever since Anders had let it slip that Wardens were _always_ hungry. At the time, Anders was lucky to get in a decent meal that wasn't sawdust bread, hardly a meal for any hungry person, taint or not. Back then, if Garrett had the coin to spare, he brought him fresh loaf of bread or a piece of fish; sometimes mutton, if a job had gone well. After the Deep Roads, Garrett had been able to bring more lavish things almost everyday: sweets and cakes from Hightown bakeries; fruits imported from Par Vollen; sandwiches Garrett crafted himself.

Most of the time, they had ended up giving all the food away to the rest of the clinic. (Anders had once joked that Garrett had single-handedly cured the scurvy in his patients with the fruits he brought.) Garrett had always saved at least one portion for Anders however, and they would sit by one of the cots, chatting while Anders had eaten. They had exchanged stories about pet cats and mabari war hounds, the sillier moments from a life on the road, comparing the terrors of growing up with twins versus adolescent Circle mages.

It seemed so long since he and Anders had last had a moment like that, Garrett thought. It was long overdue.

He stopped short when he saw the bedroll laid out on the dusty, wooden floor, a single pillow and folded-up sheet at its head. There was a single candle situated on a nearby chest, alongside papers and an apple atop of a small round of cheese. The papers revealed nothing of import — a supply list for the clinic littered with misspellings; anonymous letters signed with a single 'A' — but said everything they needed to say all the same.

It was just one more thing to add to the list of heartbreaks Anders had been exhibiting lately. Starting first with the new coat, the one that seemed to suck the light and happiness out of a room. Then there was Anders trying to give his little pillow to Varric — the pillow that Garrett (but mostly Dog) had never been allowed to touch or be near without Anders moments from snatching it away. And then there were the words, ones that sent chills down Garrett's spine: _"You were the most important thing in my life. But some things matter more than my life."_

Garrett swallowed. Who knew it would be so worrying when Anders started talking in past tenses? Out of all things to worry about when it came to Anders — a man that had a tendency to light up like a Feastday tree and continued to gamble with Gallard, even after the man had threatened to make a hat out of his ears — _tenses_ shouldn't have been Garrett's first choice.

Perhaps his main worry should have been the task of collecting crystallized piss and shit and whatever else for Anders ended with a mysterious trip to the Chantry. Now however, it was this, a bedroll in the cellars.

Garrett had told himself many things: that Anders was on one of his Grey-Warden-fueled stamina runs where he didn't sleep for four days straight (and then passed out cold for the remaining three); that he had been sleeping through Anders' usual routine, where he left at the crack of dawn for the clinic, and returned late at night to collapse into bed. But now there were no more lies he could tell himself: Anders abandoning a perfectly comfortable bed, and the man that he shared it with, to live in the cellars. Alone.

Unless Anders was merely too busy at the clinic to make it all the way up the cellars to bed, another part of him pointed out. It had happened before — usually when a sickness broke out in Darktown, which it was the season for. Back in the day, Anders had merely stayed at the clinic, but here in the cellars, he wasn't at risk of a nighttime raid by the Templars or the guards. Garrett should have been glad he was staying in the cellars.

Garrett shook his head. Was he making a big deal out of nothing? Anders getting a new coat, and Garrett found it worrisome? One incident of Anders using the wrong tenses and his mind jumped to doom and gloom? One bad dream and suddenly he was paranoid? Anders sleeping in the cellars, and Garrett thought he had abandoned him?

He needed to see Anders. Once he saw him, Garrett would realize his worries were unfounded.

He headed off again, moving further into the cellars. It was a testament to the sturdy construction of the Amell cellar that the eye-watering stench of Darktown didn't seep up from the floorboards. After sucking in one last, clean, odor-free breath, Garrett descended the ladder to the depths below.

Halfway down, the stench grew so heavy that Garrett could feel it crawling across his skin. He fought a disgusted shudder and pressed on, moving low enough on the ladder so he could drop down safely. That turned into a bad idea the moment he landed in what was certainly not mud.

"And he says this is better than the Deep Roads..." Garrett muttered darkly, shaking off the offensive muck with a scowl.

When it rained, the heat from rotting sewage and decaying waste mixed in with the water gushing from the ceilings. The air became heavy with steam, reminding Garrett of a hot washroom, without the oils and soaps he had grown accustomed too.

Darktowners had the same idea it seemed, Garrett passing more than one group scrubbing down bodies and clothes in the free water. Children played in the small pools that were filling up in every dip of stone, for once laughter filling up the streets. Even the rats seemed to be enjoying themselves, furry little bodies plopped on rocks and pipes as they cleaned their whiskers.

Anders' clinic was only a brisk walk down a set of rotting stairs, over the legs of several drunkards passed out along the walls and a hop over a growing stream of water. No one paid Garrett any attention — dressing in plain, wrinkly clothes and a simple cap helped with that — except the usual lookouts. They were children that could find no longer find fun in the youngsters' games, but they did perk up when Garrett passed. Garrett was always impressed how fast they could pick him out from a crowd, when their usual targets wore silver armor and clanked around loudly. He pressed coin into their hands as he went by, the children making the money disappear like it never existed before they resumed their vigil.

Situated on higher ground, the clinic was mostly safe from the weather. An exposed pipe overhead dripped brown water into a puddle near the doors, the water coming dangerously to a girl that was kneeling at the clinic doors. She was a tiny thing, her black hair pulled back into pigtails, her dress merely an oversized dirty shirt. As Garrett approached, he caught her happy little hums as she wound stems lined with browning Andraste's grace flowers around the dregs of red candles the Chantry favored.

It was a shrine and quite pretty, decaying and wilted as it was. It wasn't unusual for Anders to receive such tokens of praise for his work, just as it wasn't unusual for Darktown to make use of the refuse that came from the upper levels. Garrett had never seen them something so pretty from such remains however, but the longer Garrett looked at the little shrine, the more and more it reminded him of a memorial.

He had to look away — shake off chills that came with it too. Someone called for the girl from the clinic doorway, the girl looking up before darting over. Garrett shook his head again — he was losing his mind clearly, and he _really_ needed to stop it, he berated himself — before following the girl inside.

The clinic was packed, but not with patients. Cots had been turned into tables, three refugees to each, making poultices or working with small orange balls. On closer inspection, said balls were actually fruits — and not just any fruits; ones Garrett knew they had a crate of at home — Garrett watching as one refugee delicately worked a large needle and thread in a cross-stitch across the plump flesh.

Closer to him, a group of teenagers were gathered around a small pot over a fire. When Garrett peered in, he saw they were boiling elfroot, one stirring the plants slowly. They all looked confused. "We don't get it," one girl said to Garrett, her cheeks streaked with elfroot juice. "If elfroot is green, how does the potion end up red?"

It was a great question. They all stared at the brewing potion for a moment until a laugh made them look over.

"That's where the magic comes in," Anders joked as he walked up to them. Garrett felt his breath catch in his throat, but the feeling deflated a little when he noticed the teenagers looked up at him with a reverence normally reserved for Andraste statues. Anders peered into their pot, nodding his approval. "It's almost ready. Great job."

He left the teenagers grinning, Anders looking at Garrett then. "Hawke, what are you doing here?"

Though Anders always called him "Hawke," in public, Garrett found that the name stung. It was so impersonal, and with the guarded look in Anders' eyes, it was made all that much worse. Garrett hadn't seen that look in years, and it took everything in him not to reach out and touch Anders to reassure him. In private, he would have leaned in to wipe away the dirt stain on Anders' cheek, or hooked fingers in the buckles on his coat to pull him close. Except the new coat didn't have the buckles Garrett loved, and he found that hurt as much as everything else. Garrett clenched his hurt hand into a fist at his side, the pain helping him keep control. He forced a smirk and an easy drawl.

"Answering scientific questions of great importance clearly. Also, discovering the gruesome fate of our fruits." He glanced over to the refugee sewing away, and then looked back at Anders. "Not making fruit pillows, are you?"

Anders' huffed out a laugh, and shook his head. "No. I've been teaching people how to stitch up wounds. One of the easiest ways to practice is on the fruit since, Maker be praised, we don't have actual patients to work on."

Garrett frowned, the "why would you do that?" on the tip of his tongue. But the answer was completely obvious to him the moment he thought of it. The only reason they would need to learn that if a healer was no longer on hand. Garrett glanced at the refugees making poultices and potions. They were learning how to run the clinic without Anders, weren't they?

To stop the oncoming swell of panic, Garrett held up the basket quickly. "I brought lunch. I thought we could have a picnic."

The suggestion didn't prompt the delighted smile Garrett was hoping for. Anders' shoulders tensed instead. "In the rain?" he asked with a frown.

"You _love_ the rain," Garrett said, perhaps far too quickly. "And no, not _in_ the rain. Like we used to. Pull up a cot, tell each other how our days have been."

Garrett wasn't sure if he actually saw the flash of pain in Anders' eyes or he just imagined. Anders looked away too quickly for him to read it. "I appreciate the thought, Hawke," he said, but there was a tension on his shoulders that said the exact opposite. "But I'm very busy to today.

Something inside Garrett snapped, anger and hurt mixing together dangerously. The explanations he had been feeding himself for days to justify Anders' withdrawal were slowly being exposed as the lies they actually were. "I haven't seen you in three days, Darling. Can you not spare an hour?" he asked, voice tight. When the tension in Anders' shoulders grew, Garrett's temper flared. "Maker's breath, Anders, if I knew helping you with that bloody fake _potion_ meant I would never see you again—"

He cut himself off. He had said too much. Anders' face was pained when he glanced at him, an expression that was usually followed with _I can't give you a normal life_ or _You should find someone else, Love_ or _I told you I would break your heart._

Garrett suddenly felt exposed, like everyone in the clinic was now looking at him. His fingers twitched. "I should go," he said. He set the basket on Anders' desk. "You should have this. There may be enough food for everyone here."

"Garrett," Anders called softly, but Garrett was already walking off.

Odd the fights he fled.


	2. Chapter 2

Anders was singing again.

With his head pillowed in Anders' lap, Garrett watched the movement of his lips, hypnotized. The gold of Anders' hair made Garrett think of warm, cozy fires, of lying in front of them just like this. He basked in that feeling, and closed his eyes contently when Anders cupped his face and brushed the wrinkles and grooves of Garrett's forehead with his thumbs. With thoughts of warm fires and the lull of Anders' whimsical melody, Garrett felt his mind began to drift. Wherever it went, he thought, he hoped his dreams were as perfect as this.

Anders' song abruptly trailed off, Garrett blinking open his eyes to look back up at him. Anders was gazing out into the distance, rain and wind batting at gray feathers and loose blond hair. The smile he had had on his face while singing had faded for a solemn look; Garrett frowned worriedly, reaching up to touch Anders' jaw. "What is it, Darling?" he asked.

Anders looked down at him, and the tiniest of smiles tugged at his lips. His thumb dipped lower to trace the scar on Garrett's nose, before sliding down his cheek to push it against his lips. "I wish we could stay like this forever, Love," he murmured sadly.

Garrett pushed a kiss to Anders' staff-calloused thumb, trying to understand the ache he saw in his lover's eyes. "Why can't we, Darling?"

"The clock is ticking down," Anders answered, and the misery in his eyes grew. "It will be midnight soon."

The Chantry bell tolled, and Garrett shot up like an arrow bolt. Before him was the Chantry; behind them, the Champion's statue; around them, the Gallows' statues mourned. "No," Garrett whispered, stomach filling with dread. He knew this place; he had been here before. "No, no, no, no, not again. _Not again._ "

The bell rung again, and in its echo, Garrett heard his mother call for him. His eyes drifted over, seeing her sitting on the grass, beckoning him with a wave of her hand. Carver and Bethany sat beside her, laughing at Dog as he bounced in place and barked. The sheer ache and longing Garrett felt at the sight of them was almost too much to bear, and he wasn't sure he would ever forgive himself when he tore his eyes away.

"Love, please," Anders said, as Garrett looked back from the Champion's statue toward the Chantry and the Gallows. There was something to this world, something he knew about, but was also hidden from him. Garrett sussed it out, ignoring Anders beside him when he murmured resignedly, "The war will happen, Love."

A dream! The answer came to Garrett like one of the bell tolls. He was dreaming! The knowledge filled him up like lyrium, power washing through his veins to sing to him with the pulse of his heart. He was in a dream, and knowing that meant he could force himself out of it.

"Wake up," he ordered, his mind sluggishly responding. Garrett pushed that much harder, squeezing his eyes shut. "Wake up, wake up, _wake up_."

"Love, please," Anders pleaded again, but Garrett tuned him out. Fighting for consciousness was like trying to fight the thrall from a blood mage, but Garrett knew the trick to winning those fights. It was merely a battle of wills, and when Garrett fought those battles, he _always_ won. Here would be no different: He would wake up, and if he had his way, he would _never_ have this dream again—

The Chantry's bell thrummed again, piercing through him like a bolt of spirit energy. Garrett gasped, his grasp on the dream's thrall slipping as he stumbled. He scrambled to get it back, only to forget everything the instant hands settled on his shoulders.

"Come on, Son," his father said, the pulse of arcane and spirit in his touch. Garrett felt his throat grow tight, tears prick his eyes. "Let's not keep the family waiting."

_Don't look, don't look,_ one part of him whispered, but his eyes betrayed him. He watched his father pass, felt the wake of that unstoppable, world-changing magic that trailed after him. The gold of his staff was so bright against the reds of his coat, so similar to the blood splattered on Andraste's form. Garrett felt his heart stop cold in his chest at the sight, Anders whispered warning of "Love, _don't,"_ falling on deaf ears. His eyes were already betraying him again, flicking to the rest of his family.

Mother continued to beckon him, but now her dress was gray, matching her gray skin and gray eyes and gray hair. Carver's veins throbbed black against his white skin, the taint bleeding from his murky-brown eyes. Bethany now sat in her blue Circle robes, neck collared with chains that attached to the cuffs on her wrists. Dog was nowhere to be seen. As the world around him started to crumble away, Garrett felt hands settle on his shoulders again. _You have to protect them, Son,_ his father whispered.

Anders filled his vision then, blocking the sight. He cupped his cheeks, pulling their foreheads together. Garrett struggled to choke down a sob, curling his fingers into the sleeves of Anders' coat and squeezing his eyes shut. "I was supposed to take care of them," he whispered between gritted teeth, fingers gripping Anders' coat tight. "I was supposed to protect them."

"You have to let that go, Love," Anders whispered, stroking his cheeks with his calloused thumbs. Pulses of arcane and spirit were in his touch, Garrett soaking them in greedily. "You have to let go of me."

Garrett's eyes snapped open. He lurched away like he had been struck, staring at Anders in disbelief. "No!" he snapped over a Chantry bell. He could hear his family calling from behind Anders, their calls for him to join them. "No, I won't! I refuse. How could you even ask me that, Anders? After everything I've already lost!"

"Please Love," Anders begged, shaking his head. "Don't you believe in me? Don't you believe mages deserve to be free? Don't you believe they deserve to have what you had: a _family_ , willing to love them for who they are, and protect them from those who'd hunt them down and tear them apart?"

Garrett felt a stab of guilt, looking away. "I do, you _know_ I do," he snapped. "What do you _think_ I'm trying to do? They'll hunt you down and tear you apart unless I protect you! Do you think I can't do it?"

"It's not about you," Anders protested. His eyes flashed blue once. "I have a responsibility to my fellow mages. I have seen oppression and am now free. I must act to free those who remain oppressed!"

"At what cost?! Your life?"

"Some things matter more than my life," Anders hissed through gritted teeth. "More than either of us."

They had had this conversation before. Garrett could remember it then, how he had tried to laugh it off. _If you're curious, that's not the best way to get me in the mood,_ he had joked. _Why_ was he always joking?

"What about love?" he said this time. "What about family? What about _us_? Don't those things matter?"

Anders' face grew pained, his eyes flicking away. "I told you I would break your heart," he muttered, before looking back at Garrett. "I was hoping we'd find a better way, but there isn't one. _Please_ , Love, let me do what must be done."

"No!" Garrett snapped, hands clenching into fists. He turned away, pacing the hill. "No, no, you don't get to ask me that. You don't get to ask me to stand aside and watch you die!"

When he turned back around, cracks of blue light had ripped up Anders' skin and clothes, his eyes flaring white. Garrett tensed as Anders stepped right into his space, black mist wisping off him as his voice deepened like thunder. "But you would ask us to give into sloth, to stand by while mages are abducted and tortured!" Justice snapped.

Garrett recoiled, the words like a slap to this face. Guilt flooded him: Was that what he was doing? "No," he whispered.

"You cannot claim to love us, then turn on us now!" Justice continued, but those were Anders' words. Justice, Vengeance, Anders — where did they begin and end? Garrett wondered. "We _are_ the cause of mages. There is nothing else inside us. Let us go!"

"No!" Garrett cried. "I said I would protect you — I _have_ to protect you! That's all I am! Why won't you let me?!"

Justice just looked at him in reply, unflinching, unfeeling, uncaring. But the time for words was over. Sunlight was streaming through the rain, Garret looking over when he saw the Templars approaching in the hundreds, the thousands. But this was _his_ dream, Garrett realized, which meant he could control it. With the thought, his sword appeared in his hand, Garrett clenching it tight.

He looked back at Justice. "I'll show you what I can do," he snarled, Justice's face impassive. Garrett didn't care, taking off down the hill toward the Templars. He swung his sword up over his head as he launched off the hill, aiming for the center of the Templars. When he landed, he whipped the sword forward, the sheer energy blasting off as a shockwave when it hit the ground. It sent three Templars flying, Garrett ripping the sword from the earth as he spun his entire body around. The blade whipped around with him; any its path were mowed down, lyrium-enriched blood singing as it arched into the air.

The Templars that remained standing were bowled over when Garrett came out of his spin and shoot off the ground toward them. As in any Templar could stop him, Garrett thought, as he bowled them over. As if anyone could. This was who he was, this is what he did. He was his father's magic: unstoppable, world-changing.

A shadow fell over him, Garrett twisting to meet it. He only managed to get a glimpse of the Templar sword-and-sun armor and the golden crown before a blast of energy hit him full-force. Garrett was thrown into the air, lyrium crackling along his armor and skin as he hit the ground hard, skidding along dirt and grass. He came to a stop, gasping as the world spun around him.

_You have to protect them,_ Garrett heard his father whisper, pushing up on shaking arms. He caught the glint of silver from the corner of his eye, his vision clearing enough to see at least a dozen new Templars circling him, swords drawn. The closest one — the Knight — strode toward him, the ground rippling with his power. Garrett was unable even to lift an arm to defend himself as the Knight swung his armored glove forward. The crack across his face broke his nose, Garrett hitting the dirt again.

"Ferelden _dog_ ," the Knight spit. His voice sounded a thousand miles away, but all the same Garrett recognized the voice. It sounded like his own.

He looked back up, his eyes growing wide when he took in the sight of the Knight. His own face stared back at him from under the red hood and golden crown. "Do you think that you alone can stand against the full might of the Templar army?" the Knight said, his lips — Garrett's lips — lifting in a sneer. "That you can protect him any better than the ones you promised to protect before? How will you do that? You can't even control your own dream."

_I'm dreaming_ , Garrett realized. He was dreaming, and he was the Templar Knight from his own nightmares. The Knight reached down and grabbed his hair, twisting his head violently in the direction of his family. Garrett looked over at them, their broken, bloody, chained bodies strewn on the grass.

"Do you think you're the hero of this story?" the Knight said to him, tears filling Garrett's eyes. "You're not, dog. You need to let go of the foolish notion that you can save anyone. You can't, and you shouldn't even try."

Garrett's fingers dug into the dirt. _I can't save anyone._

A streak of white-lightning snapped through the air and hit the Knight straight in the chest. Garrett's face fell to the dirt, and he barely saw the waves of blue fire that followed, scattering the rest of the Templars. The rain returned, Garrett lifting his head to see Justice striding through the , his clothes now black and gold He looked at Garrett, before his light suddenly blinked off. It was Anders that dropped down beside him, Garrett reaching out to cling tight.

"Do you believe in me, Love?" Anders asked softly, cupping his cheek. Garrett bit back the sob that wanted to make itself known. "Then trust me now. Let me go."

"No, Anders, no," he hissed. "Please, don't. You _can't._ " He was the Knight, he wanted to say. _He_ was the Knight that was going to kill him—

He was too late however. The Chantry bell tolled; sunlight burst through the rain and with it, the Knight. Garrett yelled, and then blinded when Anders flared with light again. Lyrium and magic met and shook the ground, heat and wind roaring over Garrett's head. His vision blurred back into focus at the sight of Anders and the Knight mid-battle. Anders fought viciously, lightning sizzling through the air as he launched attack after attack. But the Knight was faster, stronger, even when Anders' magic managed to knock the blade from his hand. The Knight simply bolted forward, catching Anders by the arm before he could cast his spell. The Knight's small blade flashed in the air before he thrust it in Anders' back.

This time, Anders' light flashed brightly once, radiating heat and force.

It was the last thing Garrett saw before the world exploded, and he woke up.

* * *

Garrett didn't know what it said about him when he again found himself in front of the clinic doors, heavy picnic basket in hand. As much as Garrett needed to see Anders — to check for himself he was alive and well and safe with his own eyes — he couldn't go any further.

He had a feeling if Anders saw him, he'd _know._ He would know right away that Garrett was dreaming about a Templar version of himself killing him while Garrett watched. And if Anders didn't immediately see it written on his face, Garrett had a feeling that he would see Anders, grab onto him and refuse to let go. There would be words he would say that he wasn't sure he _could_ say, not out loud. _Whatever you're doing, it's not worth your life_ or _whatever you planned, there's still time to stop it_ or _Please don't do this to me, Love._

Garrett had a feeling Justice wouldn't like it and would say or worse, Anders would just look at him and say those dreaded words. _You have to let me go, Love._

There was only so much heartache Garrett could take in a day, really.

Until he figured what he was going to do, Garrett at least had a semi-dry place to sit with his basket outside the clinic doors. The rain hadn't let up from the day before, Garrett watching the rats scamper to and fro in the puddles, only to scatter when a refugee came up the stairs.

"Come on, Momma!" cried a little girl with pigtails whom Garrett had seen the day before. She was wearing the same dress that was more than a shirt than anything, and she carried a half-used Chantry candle in chubby hands. From behind her, came her mother, holding the underside of an infant in a sling hanging off her neck, wilting reefs of Andraste's grace flowers in her free hand. They met at the top of the stairs and, together, the two went over to their small little shrine.

Mother and daughter exchanged supplies, the elder lighting the candle with help from the from the infamous lit lanterns. The little girl bent down to start adding new flowers to the old, humming a little tune as she worked. Garrett watched them work, until had to look away, clenching his hurt hand into a fist. If the shrine hadn't remind him of a memorial before, it certainly did now.

"Are you scared?"

Garrett looked over. The little girl was standing in front of him; Garrett hadn't even sensed her approach. "What?" he asked, frowning.

"Of the healer?" the girl asked. Her eyes were an amber color that Garrett found oddly familiar, like something he had seen in a dream once. "You're shaking."

Garrett looked to where she was pointing, and indeed he was. His fist was quivering away against his thigh, even when he relaxed it to try to stop. The girl merely smiled however, shaking her head. "You don't have to be scared of him. He isn't a scary magicker, like the ones they tell us about. He's a good one _. He's_ a hero."

"Brittany!" the girl's mother hissed. Garrett saw the alarm in her eyes, the lack of recognition of him. "I'm so sorry, Messere. Just ignore her, she's just a child with a wild imagination..."

"It's alright, I mean no harm to the Healer," Garrett quickly reassured her, and his accent saved the day for once when she relaxed. He looked back at the little girl, and managed a smile. "A hero, you say?"

"He is!" the girl chirruped. "He saved my pa, and my mum, and my baby brother!"

Garrett glanced back at her mother, alarmed. She mouthed "accident" to him while gently rocking her infant back-and-forth. The baby was a tiny thing, Garrett realized, and had probably came too soon then. "Your whole family then?" he said to the girl, her whole body bobbing with her fierce nod. Garrett smiled — that was his love, saving families. "He sounds like a real hero."

"He can heal you too," the little girl said. Garrett's heart clenched.

Could he? Garrett wondered. The ache in his hand and heart grew, Garrett swallowing. Maybe he did need some healing, he joked to himself, though it fell flat in his mind. _Could_ Anders even heal him? How did you heal a heartbreak?

"Come along, Brittany, let's leave the nice man be. We don't want to be late for the healing lessons," her mother called then. The little girl spun around so fast that Garrett was almost hit by her pigtails, darting to her mother's side with a happy cheer. Her mother smiled over at Garrett as they headed inside, but Garret almost didn't notice.

_Healing lessons?_ Garrett frowned. What did that entail? His curiosity was piqued enough that he found himself retrieving his basket to follow them.

The clinic was full again, refuges working away on poultices and potions, or practicing their sewing on orange fruits. Anders was near the back of the clinic, sitting on that old crate Garrett had never convinced him to get rid of. A small crowd had gathered around him, most standing as the floor was too wet. Garrett noticed the little girl and her mother were there too, sitting on a cot. The little girl waved at him as Garrett approached, and he gave her a smile before looking at Anders.

"There's more to healing than simply using magic," Anders was saying, only to be interrupted by an amused snort from someone in the crowd.

"Says the mage," the person joked.

Everyone laughed, Anders chuckling as well. He went on, waving a hand as he spoke. "You know the basics: clean water, bandages, good lighting, warmth — or cool, if you're working with a fever." Some of the refugees nodded, and everyone started chuckling again when Anders quipped, "And magic, if you're so inclined. But there's another element. The human element. The spiritual one."

Garrett frowned. He had never heard Anders talk like this before. He knew shades of this Anders: the knowledge, which always came in handy; the charm, which none of their friends believed he actually had. But the way he captivated the room reminded Garrett of the way he weaved magic in battle: Effortlessly, easily, skillfully. Just like when Anders was casting spells, Garrett couldn't help but be drawn in along with everyone else.

"A good healer can stitch up wounds, set bones, treat illnesses, so on and so forth," Anders continued. "But a _superb_ healer knows how to do all that, and so much more. They know how to treat the pain, but they also know how to treat the panic and the fear his patient is feeling. He knows how those affect a person, how their body will then hold onto the pain because of their, how it make them resist healing. Knowing that is crucial, because oftentimes, you're going to have to cause your patient more pain before you can start healing them."

"More pain?" someone asked. Even Garrett was confused by that, glancing back when Anders nodded.

"Sometimes it's the only way," he explained. "If you have a wound you need to stitch closed, no poultice in the world will numb the pain long enough so they don't feel the needle in their flesh. If someone has a broken bone, you might have break it even more to reset it. Adding pain to more pain, you can see how someone might fight and resist you just to avoid it."

There was something to those words that struck Garrett, though he didn't know why. He frowned, but then looked back when Anders sat up in his seat, smiling. "A healer needs to know that, and he needs to be able to help his patient let go of his pain so he can start healing. And that requires trust."

"Think of your patient as a hurt mabari," Anders continued, after a thoughtful murmur went through the crowd. "Fierce and loyal, but so often don't know their own limits. A hurt mabari will continue to fight no matter what, even their own wounds. But if you're kind, if you speak to them calmly, let them know you're only there to help them, even a mabari will come around."

A few people nodded, Garrett almost joining in. There was so much wisdom in those words, but it was the next that hit him hard. "That's what is important when it comes to your patient," Anders said. "You'll need to let them know it's alright that they're hurt; that they're scared. You'll need to let them know that it's alright to trust you. They need to know it's alright to let go. They need to know that they don't have to fight anymore, that you'll care for them now. That you'll protect them."

Those words turned over and over in Garrett's mind, his vision blurring up the longer he stared at Anders. He recalled his dream: Anders asking him to let him go; Anders saving him from the Templars and the Knight. And what had Anders asked before the Knight had attacked again? _Did he believe in him?_

Though he himself had been the Knight that had killed Anders, would he have if Garrett had believed in Anders? He still didn't know what it meant that he was the Knight, but if he had let Anders go, hadn't attacked the Templars first, would Anders have won?

But it wasn’t just in a dream that Anders had asked him if he believed in him. Garrett’s head spun at the implications. 

"— And once you have that trust, don't squander it." Anders was saying when Garrett's ability to hear finally returned to him. He blinked, once, twice his eyes moist, and looked back at Anders. "It's like a bond with a mabari. You earn a mabari's trust, it's a badge of honor. You earn your patient's trust, that's your badge. Keep it. Don't lose it."

"Hear that? We're going to be like mabari masters," someone said, and there was a collective murmur and laughter, everyone clearly pleased. Anders' smile grew, though it faltered slightly when his eyes, moving over the crowd, landed on Garrett.

They looked at each other, Anders' surprise clear in his eyes and the way he suddenly tensed. But Garrett felt the same way, the world still spinning a little as he looked away. He set the basket on Anders’ desk, and then headed for the clinic doors.

He desperately needed to flee.


	3. Chapter 3

_Do you believe in me, Love?_ Garrett heard the Anders from his dreams ask as he left Darktown. He wandered up and out to the empty docks, the rain having chased everyone away except for dockworkers and the usual assortment of beggars. They were mostly holed up in whatever shelter they could find, covering their heads or cargo the best they could as they darted to and fro, cursing the rain all the while. Garrett was perhaps the only person on the whole dockside, if not all of Kirkwall, that didn't mind it however, stopping at his Champion statue to close his eyes and soak it in.

He hadn't always liked the rain, and after Ostagar, he had loathed it. But it had been Anders who taught him to love it again; Anders, who always insisted adamantly he was part-cat, loved the rain with as much enthusiasm as a mabari.

But Anders had always been a man of contradictions like that: hated trees, but relished plants; hated the dark, but had lived in a place called Darktown; hated the Deep Roads, but was first to follow Garrett into one each and every time. Even his magic was a contradiction — arcane and spirit — but then again, so was his spirit: Justice and Vengeance. Garrett had never known quite what to make of it.

It had been the same with the rain. It had been during the time Garrett was working every job he could to raise money for the Deep Roads expedition, when Varric took pity on his and Anders' lack of funds and bought them a drink at the Hanged Man. It had been a good night of cards and drinks and stolen glances; at the end of it, Garrett ignored Varric's knowing smirk when he'd offered to walk Anders back to Darktown.

When they'd stepped outside into the rain, Garrett's suggestion of staying in the doorway — together, pressed close, to stay dry of course — died on his lips when Anders had strode right into it. Garrett had hung back with a pout, both for the rain and missed opportunities.

"What, a big, strong Ferelden man like you doesn't like the rain?" Anders had teased from the street, his eyes crinkling at the corners and the hint of a playful smile on his lips. Back then, he had flirted just as often as he shied away, and Garrett had still been trying to figure out how to get those smiles and teases out of him. (It was something he had never figured out, really.) "I mean, with the way we relish mud..."

"Mud's different than rain," Garrett had groused. Anders had let out a huff that could have been a laugh.

"Where do you think mud comes from?"

Garrett had had to concede that point, and with Anders' coaxing him along, he'd stepped into the rain and walked over to him. It was worth all it when Anders grinned, and he teased him again with a "See, not so bad."

"You're the only person I know that likes the rain," Garrett had muttered, shielding his eyes and sneakily inching close to Anders. The mage huffed a laugh again.

"Well, it isn't just me," he'd chirped, but then he had tensed, glancing at him. Garrett had seen the fear in his eyes, and quickly put on his most disarming smile.

"The only person _and_ spirit I know that likes rain," he'd quipped, pleased when that made Anders relax. His shadow of a smile returned, his gaze lifting back to the sky.

"There's no rain in the Fade," he explained. Rivulets of water had traced pathways on his cheeks that Garrett wished he could follow with his fingers. "Justice had never seen or felt it before. I remember when it rained at the Keep — he stood outside the whole time, asking us all sorts of questions. For as much as we talk about the weather, having to explain it to a spirit is difficult, did you know? He was just a corpse then though, all his senses muted. It wasn't until we—"

He hesitated, shooting Garrett another fearful look. Garrett put on another disarming smile, and then asked curiously, "Is that why you like the rain?"

"Yes, and no," Anders had murmured, and Garrett waited patiently for him to go on. It took a little time, but slowly Anders did. "In the Circle, the Templars never let us out when it rained. All that metal armor, all that perfectly conductible rainwater — far too much temptation for a mage, really. I ended up forgetting what rain ever felt like." Anders' eyes had flashed blue once, staring at the pool of water in his cupped hands. "I vowed never to forget again."

Garrett had felt a peculiar feeling settle over him during Anders' story, suddenly realizing something he had never thought about before.

"You're making the strangest face, Hawke," Anders said when he noticed, sounding embarrassed. Garrett quickly shook his head to say it wasn't him, and Anders frowned. "What is it?"

"My father," Garrett had murmured, and it had been Anders' turn to look curious. He'd been just as slow to explain, just as embarrassed, if for different reasons. "Whenever it rained, he used to sit out on the porch and watch it for _hours_. I never understood why, but now... I suppose that was it, huh?"

Anders had looked back at the rain again. "One day," he murmured, "I hope every mage hates the rain as much as the next man. Preferably on their own porches too."

"Me too," Garrett had replied, open and honest. Anders had looked back at him, and then his lips slid into a smile.

If he hadn't been in love with Anders already — and he had been since the moment he had watched Anders bring a boy back from the brink of death; watched him explode in a flash of light and blue flames — that probably would have been the moment Garrett had fallen in love with him. There had been so much to Anders' smile and the look in his eyes. It had been shy and happy, and maybe just a little hopeful, because Garrett had _understood._ Garrett had wanted to kiss him — to this day, he wondered how he hadn't.

The toll of the Chantry bell, faint but distinct, made Garrett open his eyes. His eyes settled on the view of the Gallows across the bay, the rain doing little to shroud it from view. Garrett stared out at it, and wondered if Bethany had forgotten what the rain felt like.

 _Do you believe mages deserve to live free of the Templar's grasp?_ the Anders of his dreams asked, Garrett looking up at his statue. Like the Chantry, like the Gallows, it had been in his dream too. Even with the rain, the flame that formed the sword's blade rarely flickered.

Garrett could remember the day he had first learned there was to be a statue built in his honor. First, he had thought it had been an elaborate joke, and laughed heartily until he realized it wasn't one of Varric's stories. "I mean, I love the title," he told Anders that night in bed, propped up on one elbow beside his lover. " _Champion of Kirkwall._ It has a beautiful ring to it, doesn't it? And I love the shiny medal and the perks and all the party invitations, and I _truly_ wouldn't mind my very own statue. But they do realize I really didn't do anything, don't they?"

Anders had quirked an eyebrow at him. "You mean, besides single-handedly saving a city?"

"By pure luck. And skill, too, of course," Garrett quipped with a grin. It faltered a little as he reached over to trace fingers down Anders' arm lying between them. "But it was somewhat my fault it happened in the first place, if you recall. Besides, I was standing up for a friend when I chose to go get skewered by the Arishok, not some great noble cause."

 _Not like running a free clinic in the sewers and fighting for mage rights,_ Garrett had thought, but knew better than to say it out loud. Anders would have only been embarrassed, and would have tried to deny it. Garrett never liked it when he did that.

"Maybe that is the noble cause," Anders had said after a long moment. He reached out to brush the back of his fingers against Garrett's cheek. "That you'll stand by someone, when no one else would. Even when they least deserve it."

"Hm," Garrett muttered, not sure how spur-of-the-moment decisions compared to anything Anders was doing. He pressed a kiss to Anders' thumb when it brushed his lips, and then made a face. "But is _that_ worth a statue? Even if I _truly_ wouldn't mind one?"

Anders smiled warmly. "To me?" he replied, his eyes filled with a reverence that Garrett never knew what to do with. "Yes. It's worth far more."

Uncomfortable with that look, Garrett didn't argue the point. He accepted his statue too, at least until he had gotten his first look at the thing. "I thought it would look like me," he had said to Anders, after the long ceremony where Garrett had been presented with the statue, made to cut a ribbon and thank the sculptor.

Anders didn't reply right away. Garrett had looked over at him, and frowned when he had seen the awe in eyes as he looked up at the statue. "It looks exactly like you," Anders had said breathlessly then. "The one bright light in Kirkwall."

The chantry bell tolled again in the rain, Garrett blinking and looking away from the statue. Whatever the statue truly meant to him or Anders in the end, it had declared Garrett a protector and the city time and time again had turned to him for it. And Garrett had never minded; took comfort in it even. That was who he was, always had been … Except when it truly mattered. He didn't need a dream to realize that.

 _You have to let me go,_ Dream Anders whispered to him, Garrett's hurt hand clenching into a fist at his side. But then what? Who was he then, _what_ was he then, if he let Anders do what he had to be done for mages' freedoms? If he stood aside, trusted that Anders knew what he was doing, and ended up watching Anders die anyway?

 _No, I can't,_ Garrett thought.

Except he had already watched Anders' die twice in his dreams, by his own hand.

Except he could hear Anders whispering, _Do you believe in me, Love?_

There was a movement in the corner of his eye, Garrett glancing over. There was a familiar shape in the shadows of a building but, surprised as he was to see it, it was one Garrett knew like the back of his hand after years of watching it move around a darkened bedroom. The slow, hesitant movements, normally reserved for a man trying not to wake his sleeping lover (and failing each and every time), were like tiny needles pricking Garrett's skin here and there. But finally, Anders emerged from the shadows, stepping into the dim light of the flaming sword.

Garrett swallowed, hoping he didn't sound too harsh when he murmured, "What are you doing here?"

"I..." Anders hesitated, eyes flicking away. But when he looked back, Garrett could see he was worried. Why, he didn't know. "I thought I saw you at the clinic. I wasn't sure, I had to ask one of the lookouts if it was really you, and..."

He trailed off, looking away again. Garrett had no idea what to say, which was a first for him. When had he forgotten how to speak to Anders?

Anders glanced back at him. "You looked like you were scared," he whispered. "You looked like you were hurt."

Garrett tensed. No wonder Anders was so worried. Garrett didn't show fear. Garrett didn't show pain. Anders almost never could tell when he was uncomfortable. Garrett preferred that he didn't — when Anders had so many worries of his own, he didn't need Garrett's too — and the urge to laugh it off was overwhelming. But the moment he opened his mouth to do so, it died in his throat.

Why was he always joking? he wondered.

Garrett felt his fingers twitch as he looked away. He wasn't any good at this. He could joke, tease, mock, flirt, dance around a subject, bullshit on the fly, get any answer he wanted by putting on a charming smile, communicate with a single quirked eyebrow. But _this_. He couldn't do this. Not without it feeling like the slow descent into madness he had after two weeks in the Deep Roads.

But he was also very hurt. He was also very scared.

But was he scared of the healer?

"I'm your hurt mabari," he whispered.

Anders let out a pained sound, moving toward him quickly. Garrett tried not to gasp or shudder too violently from the feeling of Anders so close to him for the first time in what felt like weeks. When he touched him, Garrett's eyes slipped closed on their accord, his throat growing tight. He could feel the arcane and spirit he loved so much even through his clothes, the pulse of Anders' magic shooting through his body, searching for the source of the pain. It said a lot on how shook up Anders was that he was using his magic so openly, Garrett returning to his senses long enough to cover up the glow of his hands with his coat.

Anders was a good healer; a superb healer by his own account. He found Garrett's injured hand within a minute, drawing it near his body to mold it with his fingers. Garrett hid his pained twitch, but then relaxed when healing magic flowed into his hand, chasing the pain away. "What happpened to your hand?" Anders asked worriedly, glancing up at him. The rain had made more of his hair fall into his face, Garrett wanting to brush it away.

"I punched a hole through my wardrobe," he admitted without really thinking about it. Anders' eyes went wide in alarm, Garrett quick to add, "It was an accident."

"How was it an accident?" Anders asked, sounding panicked. His magic started to fade away, but he didn't let go of his hand. "Garrett, what happened?"

Garrett tensed up again. It had been bad enough that Anders had seen him hurt and scared, but his dreams were different. They were more than just an injured hand; they were a side of him he still wasn't sure he wanted Anders to see.

But with Anders so close to him after so long, looking at him with so much worry and fear, Garrett felt his resolve slip fast. It was a feeling he was quite unused to. "I've been having nightmares," he whispered, and Anders' worried look faded for a confused one.

"Nightmares?"

Garrett nodded slowly, his throat growing tight. He could see them playing out in his mind — the rain, the remains of his family, the Knight, Anders as he was stabbed in the back — but slowly, slowly, he started to explain. "About you. About us. About our family. About Templars."

Garrett told him, the best he was able, of the fate of his family, Anders' words about the war, the appearance of the Knight. How Garrett's inability to fight him, ultimately led to Anders' fate. "He kills you," Garrett managed to get out, Anders' grip on Garrett's hand so tight it was almost painful. "And all I can do is watch. But it's more than that too."

"What do you mean?" Anders asked, sounding breathless.

Garrett swallowed, heart in his throat. "I don't why, but I _am_ the Knight." Anders' face grew ashen. "He has my face. My voice. I watch him kill you, but I'm also killing you."

The sky rumbled with far-off thunder. Anders stood completely still against him, rain droplets sliding down his cheeks in ways Garrett wished his fingers could follow. But he was too afraid to do so, for Anders didn't even look surprised by his admission. He didn't pull away in horror or disgust; didn't look like Garrett had committed the ultimate act of betrayal by becoming a Templar himself. He looked like he had expected it, just as the Anders from his dreams never seemed to expect that he'd actually let go.

That thought made the dams split open, the whole story spilling out of Garrett. He couldn't have stopped himself even if he wanted to; he wasn't even sure if Anders was listening to him anymore, but he had to explain. "I-It's my fault though, that you get killed," he explained, Anders' eyes focusing back on him. "You kept asking me to let you go of you so you could fight, but I didn't. I try to fight instead but I don't even stand a chance."

Garrett felt a chill go down his spine, remembering the words the Knight had said to him. _Do you think that you alone can stand against the full might of the Templar army?_ _You need to let go of the foolish notion that you can save anyone._ He had been right, and maybe that had been why he was the Knight _._ If he couldn't believe in Anders, who else would he believe, but himself?"Maybe if I had let you go, like you wanted me to, you wouldn't have been killed. You kept asking me if I _believed_ in you and—"

"Believe in me?" Anders asked then. Garrett looked at him, watching Anders' throat bob as he swallowed. "Do you believe in me?"

Garrett frowned slowly. The way Anders was looking at him was odd. He wasn't scared, or worried or resigned. He looked like someone who had seen thousands of undeserved deaths, and the only way to cope was to numb himself from the experience. Garrett only knew what that looked like because he had himself had seen the look in his own eyes once. "What if, what I'm doing, isn't something you can believe in? And that's why you kill me."

"Freedom for mages?" he asked, confused.

Anders eyes flickered with an emotion Garrett couldn't name. "War," he whispered.

And that was it, Garrett realized. Why Anders had been staying away from him: Whatever he was going to do, he thought Garrett would kill him for. Whatever he was doing, he barely believed in it himself. It almost didn't make sense: he said so himself he was the cause of mages. Did he not believe in his own cause?

Something settled over Garrett, answers to his own questions. If he couldn't protect Anders, what was he then? Who was he? He was a man who could never protect anyone he truly loved … but he was a man who believed in his friends, when even they themselves couldn't. And Anders was more than a friend — he was Garrett's family. If he couldn't protect his family, maybe he could believe in them.

"I believe in you," he whispered. Anders' face crumpled, Garrett shooting up to catch him when his body suddenly gave out. The rain fell around them as Garrett pushed kisses to his lover's hair and forehead while Anders shook against him. While Garrett knew he would eventually have to let him go, for now he held him tight.

* * *

"Whisper to me," Anders sang to him that night, as they lay in bed. Head pillowed in Anders' lap, Garrett watched the movement of his lips, the blue flash of his eyes. He felt his eyes grow heavy when he breathed in the smell of ozone and felt the pulse of arcane and spirit when Anders' brushed staff-calloused thumbs against his lips. The lull of Anders' hypnotic little melody tugged him further into the Fade's grasp, his eyes slipping close as he hummed along with Anders. "If you want to be..."

The toll of the Chantry bell made Garrett open his eyes, gaze drifting from the Champion's statue back to the Chantry. He looked past the staircase and golden statues, the flapping banners up to the stone towers reaching out to the Black City. The bell called to it, twice, thrice, but again was met with silence except for the patter of rain. The Black City floated on — uncaring or unseeing, Garrett wasn't sure.

"The clock is ticking down," Anders said as he stepped up beside Garrett. His voice rumbled like storms, gray feathers fluttering in the wind. "It will be midnight soon."

Garrett swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. The Chantry bell rang again, and in its echoes, Garrett could hear the drumming of a thousand marching feet. He could feel sunlight that streamed forth, chasing the rain away. "The war will happen," he agreed.

Anders turned to face him, reaching up to cup his cheek. Garrett closed his eyes to soak in the arcane and spirit in Anders' touch, kissing a staff-calloused thumb when it brushed his lips. "Do you believe in me, Love?" Anders whispered, Garrett opening his eyes to look at him.

For the first time, behind the ache and misery, the guilt and regret, Garrett saw the uncertainty in Anders' eyes. So much depended on Garrett's answer, whatever it might be.

This time, however, Garrett knew what to say. "I do," he said, and then smiled. "You know I do."

Anders' smile was blinding, and didn't fade when his eyes flashed white-blue. 

Garrett smiled again, stepping back when Anders pulled away, flaring with light. As the greens and browns of Anders' clothes started to bleed black and gold, Garrett looked over to where his family was. His mother beckoned him over, Carver was scowling, Bethany was laughing at Dog. He saw his father heading down toward him, the wake of his magic calling to him to come along.

Garrett looked away, toward the sunlight that streamed through the rain. The Templars were there, in the hundreds, the thousands. At the head stood the Knight from his nightmares, wearing Garrett's face, meeting Garrett's gaze without a hint of fear. Garrett's heart spiked in fear, but he pushed his fears aside. He believed in Anders, and that was what mattered.

He glanced back over when Anders stepped beside him again, and for the first time, he noticed he had no weapon of his own. Why was that? he wondered. Why did he dream of Anders without a staff to fight with?

Garrett's breath caught in his throat when hands settled on his shoulders, the pulse of arcane and spirit in the touch. And as he looked at Anders, a golden staff formed in his hand. It was his father's, Garrett feeling his heart pound. That staff had always served his father in protecting the family; Garrett knew it would the same for Anders.

The Chantry bell tolled from behind them. His lover looked at him once last time, eyes shy and happy and filled with hope. The look only faded when Anders flared with light and with another Chantry bell, walked down the hill.

 _I believe in you,_ Garrett thought as he watched Anders go.  _I believe in you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hypnotic, dream-like melody of the fanmix's namesake was the biggest inspiration for the story "Quiet Revolutionaries." (I highly recommend listening to the [live version](http://vimeo.com/7330022) of the song "Quiet Revolutionaries" too.) "Songs of hope and loss," a line from the _Quiet Revolutionaries_ song I think best describes this fanmix (and incidentally, is what the second author, aphreal, titled their story). But, as minorearth wrote in her fanmix the fanmix, these are also songs of a "love that isn't always pretty, and it almost never comes easy, but [...] will survive," and grow all that much more stronger. 
> 
> With that, I must thank the DARBB mods for all their hard work in putting together the challenge, as well as to minorearth, for giving me a chance to write something I would have never written on my own. 
> 
> But all my thanks and love goes to Flutiebear, who held my hand and let me cry on her shoulder, and convinced me to keep going when even I was sure I couldn't go on. (I am really bad at personal deadlines, it turns out.) Her support and suggestions truly made this story it wouldn't have been otherwise. But I think, ironically, Flutiebear taught me the same lesson this story had to teach Garrett and Anders: _to let go._
> 
> Flutie, like I said a thousand times to you before: your support has meant the world to me. Thank you, my friend, I couldn't have done it without you. (Now let's go be fugitives together and see if we can find a more deposits.)
> 
> Be sure to read Flutiebear's DARBB piece [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/905032). It is _phenomenal_.
> 
> Other notes: I took some artistic licence with the location of the clinic relative to Amell's estate Darktown entrance. 
> 
> Inspiration for Anders talk about healers comes from Flutiebear’s “Medicine Is No Salve,” meta [here.](http://flutiebear.tumblr.com/post/50907176238/medicine-is-not-about-salves-medicine-is-bloody)


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